


Lassiter's Little Wifey

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Costume Kink, Dom/sub, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Roleplay, Shower Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the Psych Kink Meme Prompt: Shawn as the perfect cop's wife only I guess I read that as Shawn frets a lot and there is sex. Anyway, Shawn deals with the idea of being a cop's wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lassiter's Little Wifey

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dlasta and sinjah for helping him with what was supposed to be a quick fic and turned into this.

Shawn had just left a foil-wrapped chicken burrito with extra green sauce and no cilantro on Lassie's desk when he heard the snickering from a few feet away.

He was leaving food on Lassie's desk because he and Gus had gone out to El Carrito de Tacos (aka the taco cart by the courthouse) and he'd known that Lassie would be hungry (not for psychic reasons, but for the very obvious reasons that Lassie was stressed out over a case and when stressed he forgot to eat, which only made him more crankier. Also because Shawn had seen Lassie run out of the house without breakfast that morning.)

Which was all normal and stuff, but he looked up from the little note he'd been writing anyway (something about espicey kisses especial and how Lassie was hot like Mexico that was in no way mushy despite what Gus had said when Shawn had been composing it aloud on the walk over) and saw two plain-clothes detectives walking by. (Smith and Wysson, who could have had their own cop show if their awesome names hadn't been the coolest things about them.)

“Who knew he'd make such a good cop's wife?” one with a toupee (Smith) commented to Wysson, who was trying to pull off the same manly-man-on-a-budget look that Lassie did, only not nearly as well, and that was saying something, because most of Lassie's suits weren't the greatest.

“Yeah. Lassiter's little wifey.”

They were being loud enough to be heard, on purpose, so Shawn grinned, grinned way too wide, and gestured at his head as though the spirits were telling him things. (Spirits no, body odor yes.) And they quickly looked away in that guilty way that meant he'd have to study them later, get more dirt than just one affair and one sleeping medication problem.

When they were gone, he frowned down at his note. And the burrito. And the small soda (caffeine-free) he'd gotten for Lass but then had sipped most of.

He didn't get it. He got jerkwad homophobia sure, if that's what that had been. But wife? He and Lassie were totally two dudes. And they weren't even out...exactly. Everyone knew, but it wasn't like he and Lass advertised it. Henry didn't even know (or hadn't said he did yet and Shawn could wait as long as he could) and he and Lassie were practically living together. (And no, he hadn't even panicked about that, much. He still had his apartment after all. He was pretty sure. He ought to visit, see if his key still worked.)

The notes were just because it amused Shawn to embarrass Lassie. It was another way to tease (and push and prod) Lassie when the man failed, yet again, to see the obvious. Though Lass was getting better, Shawn had to admit. Not to his face of course, not yet; taunting Lassie at work was too much fun. Sitting on his desk, messing up his hair or his files, dropping a few hints to get him on the right track but then letting Lassie know that he already knew the answer, and then Lassie would jump up or yank him aside and do filthy, rough, completely enjoyable things to remind Shawn that he didn't know _everything_.

Then later, Lassie would thank him for the clues. Not to Shawn's face, naturally. In his reports. (Which he _had_ to know Shawn would steal and read.)

But _cop's wife_. What was that anyway, he wondered as he headed back outside to where Gus was waiting impatiently by the car. He could guess what they meant; someone sweet, caring, and totally willing to put up with a ton of crap without complaining. It sounded so sexist that even Shawn was sort of itchy as he sounded it out (and he'd been twenty-five before he'd abandoned his subscription to _TNA Monthly_ ).

“Cop's wife...” he repeated as he skipped down the steps. His mom hadn't been like that (though okay, his parents were divorced. Hey, weren't most cops divorced? Gus would know the statistic. Gus was cool like that.) The Chief _was_ the wife...and a cop, so she wasn't a good example. Buzz and his wife were...probably really sweet aliens. And Jules seemed like she'd wear the pants in any family. Huh.

Gus' parents seemed normal. Though of course they weren't cops. And Lassiter's marriage was...something Shawn didn't ask about. (He preferred to pry through closets and photo albums, and study the body language as it had gone from all over each other, to tired-looking and stressed but holding hands, to standing apart, and then to just Victoria alone. Lassie had probably been working. He would have been trying hard for detective then, Shawn figured, and maybe the photographers had gotten tired of waiting. Or Victoria had.

Of course, Shawn hadn't found any candid pictures in any of the albums, which he thought was a little weird. He'd known Lassie for years now, known him naked for less than that, and yet he had quite the collection of candid pics on his phone and on Gus' digi cam...which he really ought to download before Gus found them and freaked out.)

“Are you even listening to me?” Gus complained, his tone truly pissy, but then maybe his three extra-hot, extra-cheese tacos were going right through him. Shawn sat up, then realized he was still holding Lassie's soda. He sipped it thoughtfully.

“Hey, Gus, is cop's wife a compliment?”

“I do not want to hear it, Shawn.” Gus smoothly got in the car and went into Lockdown Mode when Shawn kept talking. “No. You know my rule, whatever you and Lassiter do is your business.”

“But, Gus...”

“No. No details, Shawn.” Gus started the car. Then glanced over smugly. “But you're totally the wife.”

~~~

Later that night, Shawn was still slightly upset and a lot confused but willing to believe that Gus was crazy and that Smith and Wysson were jerks. Shawn wasn't a wife. He was barely a boyfriend. Yes, he was apparently a one man...man, and they'd been together if not living together for a while now. And the living together had been long enough for Shawn to know that Lassie took his morning ritual very seriously, and there was no talking to Lassie while he did his business or if his Sudoku went unsolved, and for Lassie to learn that Shawn liked foot rubs and Hannah Montana pomegranate bubble bath, and did not allow anyone to touch his 360 without permission. But Shawn had never said boyfriend, and Lassie...hadn't said much of anything, not even when Shawn's toothbrush had appeared in his bathroom or that totally vintage Whitesnake poster had been hung up on the inside of his closet door.

They weren't about that. Talking. Or labels. Or serious things. They were about having fun. And food. And sex. And more sex. And going to sleep together before more food and sex. Not necessarily in that order. There was nothing wrong with that, and no need to give it any boring names, and therefore nothing to worry about.

Decided, he proved his manliness by playing said 360 for three hours, then by making the decision to never wear socks again when he realized all of his were dirty. Of course, after that (after smelling his now-stinky feet) he stole some of Lassie's. Then he did not do laundry, because he wasn't the wife. Though he kind of liked the smell of fabric softener and sitting on the dryer was always fun.

After doing one load (all _his_ clothes until he could talk Lassie into doing his laundry for him,and maybe ironing them. Lassie was a whiz with the iron) it was time for dinner. He ordered a pizza for himself and then a personal one for Lassie with no pineapple (Lassie's lack of taste didn't mean Shawn had to be a jerk) and then looked at the clock.

Lassie hadn't solved the case yet, he knew that because it was late and Lassie wasn't home. If Shawn had been hired, he _might_ have said to look into that nail salon, because that seemed pretty likely, but he hadn't, and so unless Lassie asked, he wasn't going to. It was a hard day for Lass, the Chief was on his case about it, and more importantly to Lassie, justice was going unserved (not to mention that burrito might be all he had eaten all day). On the scale of Lassie bad days, this meant a scotch and having to be forced to relax.

So he didn't know why Lassie looked so surprised when exactly one hour later Shawn met him at the door with the drink in his hand, ice clinking, glass cold and drippy with condensation, scotch all scotchy and golden brown.

He could tell Lassie had been going to say something about his day (most probably something about Shawn's totally fantastic note) or grudgingly ask for his help with the case behind the Chief's back (he always did eventually, and always grudgingly, though considering all that pent up frustration had led to this, with those nice years of groping and threatening foreplay first, Shawn privately thought Lassie just enjoyed the theater of it all. Shawn was down for theater, especially in the bedroom). But Lass swallowed his words and soundlessly accepted the drink, and then let himself be led into the living room. He stared at Shawn the whole time.

Shawn stared back innocently, _really_ innocently. Lassie had a big comfy chair, a sweet Barcalounger that he used to relax (along with big, noise-canceling headphones that played horrible music. No Pat Benatar? No Wreckx-N-Effect. Shawn didn't get it). Shawn pulled Lassie to it before pushing him down and then settling into his lap, with his ass on one side of Lassie and his legs hanging over the arm of the chair.

“Didn't solve it, huh?” he asked, not grinning, though Lassie's glare momentarily sharpened. Shawn wasn't psychic and Lassie knew it, but come on, it was _obvious_ Lassie was frustrated. He pursed his lips, frowned an epic frown, and then, staring at Shawn, took a sip of his drink.

When he swallowed, Shawn stretched up, reaching for the glass, though he didn't take it from Lassie's hands as Lassie gave him a sip. Scotch was not his favorite, but he liked it when it was warm from Lassie's mouth.

Lassie was giving him that strange look again, although some of the tension was easing from his shoulders as he leaned back into the chair. Shawn scooted in to follow him, but leaving his head down to listen to Lassie sipping his drink.

Lassie would have to eat soon, but this was good for now. Shawn had about thirty seconds before Lassie got riled up about work again, and though he didn't count, he smiled a bit when Lassie suddenly snarled to himself and started to rant about stupid bureaucracies and red tape preventing him from doing his job and how he knew the Chief was getting pressure too, but it wasn't his fault and Jules wasn't a bad detective and it wasn't her fault either.

Shawn nodded after a beat or two, knowing the rant by heart and not really listening until it started to wind down. He could smell gunpowder; Lassie had stopped by the gun range. He probably needed food sooner and not later, but Shawn just patted Lassie's chest, not ready to move yet and neither was Lassie.

Cop's wife, Shawn thought suddenly, dismissively. Psh. It was safer for the citizens of Santa Barbara if Shawn calmed the man down. After all, he _was_ part of the reason Lassie had been wound up, and it wasn't like he'd fetched Lassie his pipe and slippers.

Pipe. Whatever. Lassie didn't even smoke, Shawn sighed to himself, and barely noticed when the sound made Lassie stop mid-curse, like he was confused, as though Shawn had said that part out loud.

 

~~~

 

Shawn found a pair of slippers the next day. It was a total coincidence. He was just in the mall with Gus, looking through Williams-Sonoma because Gus liked to buy expensive copper pans he never used, to replace the ones Shawn had ruined making homemade caramel for popcorn (possibly it _had_ been a bad idea) and Shawn liked to look at all the gadgets. He found them fascinating in the same way he'd thought about magic as a kid until Henry had explained how each and every trick worked. Still, with the right set, Shawn was convinced he might be able to successfully make his own lasagna noodles someday.

When they'd _finally_ left the store there they had been, right _there_ in a display window, (in Spencer's Gifts, which was totally _fate_ no matter what Gus said about how long that company had been around) –the perfect pair of slippers.

Of course, as unexpected gifts made Lassie suspicious and—on occasion—trigger happy, Shawn had had to wait three days to give them to him. _Three whole days_. Then Lassie had been punished for mouthing off to the Mayor about that last case (though he had been right. Lassie, that was, not the Mayor) and had been stuck investigating petty property crimes for the past two days, and it was becoming obvious that Lassiter's waiting major cases were starting to weigh on him.

The Chief had promised only one more day (Shawn had maybe hinted the spirits were restless because of all Lassiter's negative energy, though honestly, Property Crimes? Lass was _Head Detective_. On routine cases there was no one better in the whole department) but meantime, Lassie was coming home _early_ every day and in a foul mood. Dramatic action was called for.

At exactly 5:36, right on time, Lassie walked in, not even saying hello. He stalked past the kitchen to the bedroom, yanking at his tie as he went. The tie Shawn had tied for him just that morning, the knot perfect, and seeing it treated like that wasn't a good sign.

Shawn looked up from the macaroni and cheese he'd been slaving over (or, reheating since Lassie had made it yesterday, _and_ added chili to it, which was totally worth intestinal distress despite what Shawn had first assumed) and thought, judging from the set of Lassie's shoulders, _maybe_ a beer to relax tonight, but also possibly not. Sometimes _First 48_ marathons did the trick, (when they didn't rile the man up more) if Shawn didn't solve the cases too quickly (out loud) just to tease him.

Shawn left the chili mac in the oven (a microwave oven was still an oven) and went after him. There was silence from the bedroom. No grumbling. Not even the shower being turned on.

When he stopped in the doorway, it was because Lassie was sitting on edge of the bed with the slippers in his hands, staring at them.

“Aren't they the most awesome things ever?” Shawn had a pair for himself too. Well, his were bunnies in uniform, not a fluffy bear in uniform (that Shawn privately thought of as a cuddle bear for all that it looked grouchy). Lassiter frowned up at him, with that same confused, slightly suspicious look from the other night. Or like when Shawn had told him how much he liked spankings (actually, _exactly_ like when Shawn had told him that. Luckily that look hadn't lasted long. It had quickly been replaced with a spark of lust in true blue eyes and a clumsy yet _very_ firm-handed eagerness and Shawn had found himself over one polyester-covered knee and clutching at Lassie's pants to keep from coming. He'd failed. Lassie hadn't seemed to mind).

“What? Don't know how to put them on?” Shawn shook his head slowly to let Lassie know he was an idiot, in case he'd forgotten, then came forward. “Lemme,” he offered, ordered, and popped down onto his knees. He grabbed them and slipped off Lassie's shiny dress shoes and it was only when he looked up that he realized he was _putting slippers on the man's feet_.

That he was on his knees too, and Lassie was staring down at him, startled and already sort of turned on. Because yes, this was totally reminiscent of their pre-spanking type adventures, or when Shawn wasn't sure why but he'd slide down to stare up at Lassie from the floor and it would feel so, so good when Lassie's fingers would twist in his hair to pull his head back.

Heat burned through him, and when Lassie swallowed, it was like Houston, we have lift off. Sexytimes ahoy. Sure, they'd had sexytimes last night too, but there was no such thing as too much sexytimes, and anyway this was like...like one of those times when Shawn knew (possibly even psychically except that wasn't real) that the sexytimes were going to be amazing. Astounding. Ass-grabbingly awesome. One of those times when it was so good he couldn't take it and he felt weird afterward, touchy somehow, and if Lassie hadn't been there to hold onto, he would have run and left town and not come back.

He finished sliding the slippers onto Lassie's feet mostly by groping, not taking his eyes away from Lassie's, not even for a second. He took his time, and when he was done, he moved his hands up to Lassie's ankles, and then his knees.

The confusion was leaving Lassie's face in a hurry, and when he wet his mouth, Shawn straightened up, sat higher on his knees. Lassie made a small noise.

Oh yeah this was the same shiver Shawn got when he got handcuffed to the bed and told what to do. Which drove him just as crazy as he drove Lass at the station. Shawn never really examined it or wondered why; he just loved it (great sex for both of them, there was no reason _not_ to). So before he could think about it, why they operated this way, how they didn't talk about it, what it meant that when he looked at Lassie now and thought, _I wonder if Lassie thinks of me as his wife_ he got so hot he had to lean in closer.

He ran his palms up Lassie's thighs and reflected that blowjobs were guaranteed to make a man relax. He parted his lips as he wondered if Victoria had tried them, but he immediately flinched away from that thought, though she had been...she had once been Lassie's wife. She must have.

Lassie's _wife_. But Shawn wasn't going to ask. Or think about it. He was just going to blow Lassie so good he wouldn't be able to think about her, or cases, or Property Crimes. He would just think, _Shawn is where I want to come home to,_ and, _I should never leave_.

Whoa. He hadn't wanted to go there, but there might be something to all this. Something that Shawn really ought to think about. Later.

“Bad day?” He had to clear his throat, and look down to watch Lassie's fingers curl into what Gus would call the duvet. Lassie was hot to the touch, tense, but that could have been from how Shawn's fingers didn't waste much time on his belt or zipper.

He slid in closer, pressing wrinkles into Lassie's pants before risking another look up. Lassie still wasn't speaking, so Shawn bent his head and sucked his balls through his boxer briefs. Lassie's hands immediately went to his hair.

“Tell me about it,” Shawn offered, humming as he slid his mouth higher, inhaled all that aroused Lassie. The fingers in his hair tightened, and Shawn gasped, just a little, at how this sent a spark to his dick, and made it about as heavy as the cock in his face that he was looking forward to swallowing down, and Lassie trembled, then thrust up, so carefully that if his dick hadn't already been stiff and uncomfortable inside his jeans, Shawn would have gotten hard all over again.

“Like you don't already know,” Lassie was always smart at the strangest times. “You know everything.” Shawn nodded, because that was true, and since they weren't at the station, he was pretty safe in admitting Lassie was right. He stretched up though, because Lassie couldn't see his nod, and pulled Lassie's shirt out of the way to kiss his bare stomach.

A second later he was back down, nosing (he was not nuzzling) at the soft cotton, his mouth open to catch the quick jerk of Lassie's reaction.

“But I want to hear...” he whined, though he wasn't sure he'd hear a single word the moment that cock was finally in his mouth. Lassie's underwear was already getting sticky against his tongue, and he pried them out of the way and then gave a small groan when he got the heavy sac in his palm.

Okay a loud groan, a real groan, like Lassie was killing him and Lassie hadn't done anything yet.

“Shawn...” Lassie dragged out his name, breathed out when Shawn pushed in and spread his legs wider.

“Let me make it all better,” he wanted to say, to tease like he would have at a crime scene, only all that came out was a hum, and then Lassie took over at last, urged his head down and said his name again. And yes, yes Shawn please.

Shawn swallowed, swallowed the first hints of flavor, sharp and salty, and then dropped a hand to shove down his jeans, rubbing with the heel of his hand at the next words to stumble out of Lassie's mouth.

His day. The stress. The stupidity. How he wished Shawn had been there, even if it meant Shawn flailing around and mocking him. And it was...it was so hot. Shawn thought about Lassie at work, working with him, beating him each and every day, how Shawn always won. Then about this, and how he might do anything Lassie wanted here and he still didn't know why, but for the first time he wanted to.

He couldn't speak (mouth full) but he couldn't have anyway, just felt his legs weaken, and held on tighter to Lass, the bed, and let Lassie's hand go to the back of his neck to guide him.

When Shawn choked, Lassie's fingers pulled at his hair (gently, patiently waiting until Shawn was hungry for more, holding him back even when Shawn groaned and inched forward, until Shawn was breathing evenly again and only then did Lassie push up, filling Shawn's throat with cock) and Shawn thought faintly about give and take (as he took and took and took and Lassie gave it) and how that was sort of like what they said about marriage on daytime TV.

The thought was so hot he came in his jeans, all over his fingers, and barely stopped to catch his breath before he looked up to let Lassie know he could take more.

 

~~~

 

Of course the next day, after Lassie left for his last day of Property Crimes, Shawn laid in bed and jacked off to thoughts blowing Lassie like that in other places, and of that look in Lassie's eyes that probably just meant _mouth-on-my-cock-yay!_ even if sometimes Shawn saw it when he and Gus showed up at crime scenes (before Lassie scowled to hide it), and over breakfast, and that one time when Shawn had agreed to _try_ cinnamon toothpaste and discovered that it wasn't so bad (and that he could kiss Lassie freely if he used it, kiss him anywhere, if he wanted. Which he did).

Every time he pictured it, squeezing himself tighter to keep from coming (pretending his hand was Lassie's), he remembered that last moment with Lassie's dick deep in his throat, and it was like, it was like, finding the right clue, only like _not_ finding it but knowing it was close, because he was _aching_ before he finally let himself come.

He _could_ have dismissed it as a new kink, or part of his old kink, but what would he call it? A cop's wife kink? He didn't even know what that meant. Sure it got him hot, but so did regular sex. And chocolate sauce. And Billy Zane.

Marriage wasn't supposed to be a turn on, he was sure. Except for for Bridezillas and Elizabeth Taylor. And he and Lass weren't married. For the obvious reason of they were two guys with boners for each other and this was California and also because Shawn wasn't Lassie's wife.

He just, maybe, wanted Lassie to _call_ him that. While fucking him. Possibly while telling him about his work day and maybe, maybe, with Shawn dressed appropriately. And with that look in his eyes.

He went back to the mall, wandered through a David's Bridal until screaming brides had scared him out, and then found himself at Williams-Sonoma again. By himself, like he was at the porn shop. All he needed was a trench coat as he contemplated all those shiny appliances and what they could do. How it might be nice for Lassie to come home to fresh loaves of bread and a margarita machine.

Shawn had never really cared for the 1950's TV series reruns always on during the day, though Lucy could be funny. But these shiny plastic and steel gadgets reminded him of those shows, and the (possibly kind of sexy) housewives on them (who weren't as sexy as like Ponch or almost anybody on _Hill Street Blues_ except Dennis Franz) who wore big, fluffy aprons and had amazing hair and had dinner on the table for the man who'd worked hard all day and whose marriages were always perfect and super happy.

They made cleaning and laundry and cooking look easy. It was like this store. They just needed the right gadgets and everything came out perfect with no effort. Nobody fought or left because nobody needed to; there was nothing to argue about. (In fact, with those twin beds, and the way everyone was drinking and smoking _all the time_ with no coughing or hangovers, those shows made life look like no one ever argued. Or left. Or got hurt. And Shawn had learned early that that wasn't the case).

Not that he wanted that. Marriage. Or that he was going to put on a dress and pearls and heels or anything just to make Lassie happy. He didn't have the legs for heels.

(Also, he couldn't be down for a world in which there was no one with Gus' luscious skin tone or hot bad ass ladies like Jules).

Anyway, none of those wives had been cop's wives. That left _Hill Street Blues_ as his only example, and that was...not helpful. Those wives had been pretty quiet in general, that he remembered. Or had been busy with kids. Or trying bravely not to cry at funerals.

Television. Psh. Shawn felt itchy all over, decided to walk clear across the mall to get a pretzel. TV was as fake as magic. He should have listened to Henry and gone outside to play more.

He didn't buy anything at Williams-Sonoma since he'd forgotten to grab Lassie's credit card. Well, he impulsively bought a cookbook, with _his own money_ , but he hid it without cracking it open because trying to cook didn't mean really cooking and nothing about his attempts were smooth or easy. He got take out instead.

Lassiter liked coming home to food, and Shawn knew exactly when he'd be home today.

~~~

 

He was pretty sure that the grateful, stunned look on Lassiter's face when Shawn was standing there with food waiting on the table when he got home from work tired and grouchy (okay, he was mostly _always_ grouchy) wouldn't make other people as tingly as it made Shawn. Lassie didn't bother hiding how happy he got and it was like Shawn had gotten something right that he'd actually _tried_ for.

Though naturally, later, he had consulted the wizards of the internet and making someone else happy was supposed to be a universal relationship thing, and that's what this was, even if Shawn didn't have any basis for comparison. They were definitely considered boyfriends too, because they were (mostly) living together.

Still, when he'd mentioned it to Gus, sneaking it slyly into a conversation about teriyaki sauce, Gus had acted like Shawn had grown a second head. Bitch please. As if Shawn hadn't ordered dinner for Gus a time or two. He wasn't cleaning Lassiter's house or anything. He didn't even know how a vacuum cleaner worked (though he had followed Gus around once saying “Donnie says vacuum” when Gus had tried to explain).

He could at least admit now that it was more than just concern for the citizens of Santa Barbara motivating him. It was more like...when Lassie would look up from his food and grunt a “This is good” or a “Thanks” when Shawn handed him a glass of water when the curry was too spicy, or cranberry juice when Lassie had to drive them home, or a beer just because, Shawn got sort of...edgy.

Edgy of course meaning horny. He couldn't figure it out but he couldn't get enough of Lassie all the sudden and it wasn't like he'd been denying himself sex with Lassie before. But the third time he'd jumped Lassie in the hallway (and the kitchen and the living room) even Lassie had started to look at him like he wasn't sure if Shawn wasn't up to something. Not that Lass was complaining. (It was, Shawn knew, much more likely that Lassie was worried that Shawn was building up to break up with him, that paranoid and insecure cuddle bear.) Thank goodness Shawn could—practically—read minds, and that Lassie was currently too busy to confront him.

There had been a spree of home invasion robberies. The Chief called Shawn and Gus in, but honestly, it _was_ a little weird so it might even take Shawn a while to solve it. Not even fingerprints were left, they hit both rich homes and middle class, and there was no clear connection between the homes that were targeted. _And_ Psych had a private case that they'd taken before all the other stuff had started, but Lassie kept stressing how it was only a matter of time before someone innocent got hurt and so Shawn had forgone his mani-pedi and his Xbox Live tournament to search for clues. (Between that and his stupid day job, Gus had almost passed out at the wheel but by now he had gone home and probably to bed).

Shawn had bought one of those...meal things...from the grocery store. Pre-packaged, heat and serve. More beer too, the better kind, the kind _he_ liked, but he had one in his hand when Lassie stumbled into the kitchen, with his coat over one arm, his tie loosened, his collar undone, and his sleeves rolled up.

His rumpled suit couldn't have been more Ward Cleaver coming home from a hard day's work (and just a little _Mad Men_ , which Shawn had started watching in secret like it was _Debbie Does Dallas_ ) so Shawn had to set the beer down with a clunk and stare and try not think about saying _anything_ about Lassie being too hard on the Beaver.

When Lassie came forward, he got the beer up again, and nodded back when Lassie nodded his thanks and took it, stretched up when Lassie planted a tired kiss on his forehead, and then only remembered to speak when Lassie had already disappeared down the hall.

“Crap, I need a shower,” Lass explained, dropping his coat, and Shawn blinked. He remembered to turn the oven down (barely) and then followed after Lassie, _just_ catching a glimpse of Lassie nudity before Lassie shut the shower door.

“Um...” Shawn licked his mouth. The bathroom was already getting steamy. And speaking of steamy, Shawn had all sorts of picture-perfect memories of Lassie in that shower and wanted some more to add to his collection. And then afterward, they'd both be exhausted and they could eat on the couch, and then Lassie would lean against the arm and almost fall asleep and be too tired to comment when Shawn would crawl over him and pass out. “Um...Dinner's ready.”

“What?” Lassie's slippers were waiting outside the shower. Shawn stepped closer, so Lassie could hear him. “What, Shawn?” Lassie was starting to sound snappish. Shawn knew a cure for that.

“Dinner is ready,” he enunciated, carefully, watching Lassie's shape through the frosted, foggy glass, watching it stop moving.

“Dinner? _You_...made dinner?” Shawn could hear the pause (okay, the fear) over the rushing water. He pouted, for real.

“You're...not hungry?” That hurt in ways that made him wince and step back. He'd never considered that Lassie might not be as hungry as he was.

But the shower door cracked open to reveal a soggy, soapy Lassie, his hair flat, his eyes wide.

“No,” he said slowly, suspicion and caution all over his wet, pink face. “No I'm starving,” he assured Shawn, blinking a little at Shawn's sudden beaming grin and bounce toward him.

“It's in the oven,” Shawn revealed, because right in that moment, he realized that he'd always wanted to tell someone “Dinner's in the oven” and that if that person was Lassie, it was so much better. Lassie actually blinked again, still wary, but Shawn could see the pink spread to his ears. That wasn't from the heat of the shower.

He stepped close again, and then when Lassie wondered, “What did you make?” it was more than he could stand. Shawn opened the door, stepped in, and closed it behind him by the time Lassie got out one, “You still have your clothes on, you idiot. You'll make a mess!” But at that point Shawn was already getting pressed to the wall and held there and his chest was going tight. He panted, and moved, yanking up at his shirt, feeling it get heavier as it got soaked, and then forgetting about it when Lassie worked one strong and very naked thigh between his legs.

He shifted, mostly to get some wet friction, and Lassie hissed against his neck. There were soap bubbles trailing down Lassie's too-pale shoulders, dripping on him, but Shawn didn't really mind. Lassie's hands burned against his hips and under his clothes, and when that made him shiver and thrust forward, Lassie shoved him to the wall again.

“Go on.”

His growl was more pleased than pissed. Interrogation Voice. Shawn shuddered.

“Oh, you know,” Shawn tried to be breezy but honestly, when he rolled his hips one more time, Lassie pinned him in a move that was pure _WWE Raw_ , and he could struggle all he wanted, but Lassie wasn't going to let him move until he wanted him to, and it was sexy like cherry pie. He turned to gasp into the stream of water (not drowning by luck alone) and hoped if Lassie saw his red face, he'd blame it on the steam. “...Chicken, potatoes, bis- _cuits_!” His voice jerked up when Lassie ground down against him. Apparently, the thought of dinner got Lassie hot too. “Honey and but- _er_ for those...”

His clothes were drenched, heavy, his jeans skin-tight and sticking. Lassie was naked. There wasn't much left to the imagination and yet Lassie wasn't touching him, at least not enough to take this anywhere. Shawn tried to inch his legs apart, just a bit more, and then moaned when Lassie bit his neck and held him still.

“You aren't done,” Lassie purred, and in the back of Shawn's mind (the part that was still capable of thought), he wondered if Lassie knew. If Lassie thought it was weird how Shawn gave in like this, or if he knew why, if he wanted it this much too. He sure as hell didn't seem tired anymore.

“I think there was some kind of vegetable you can eat!” Shawn's voice bounced off the tile, the steamy glass doors as Lassie licked soapy water from under his ear. “...Or some sort of salad thing... Lassie...” Shawn pleaded, letting his voice rise again when Lassie grabbed his hand, sucked his fingers like they were going to do the walking, and Shawn nodded, gasped, willing for that to happen. Lassie grunted. A happy grunt. Shawn felt shaky.

“Again.” Lassie ordered, releasing Shawn's fingers just to spin Shawn around and get his face to the wall. Kind of like when they played kinky frisking, (“Body cavity searches aren't hot, Shawn.” “Allow me to rebut, Lassiepants.”) and since that generally meant Shawn getting fucked so hard he couldn't walk, he nodded again, jerkily, on the wrong side of desperate.

“Dinner's in the oven,” he said again, and bowed his head when Lassie liked that, because _he'd_ liked that, and they were so close, so close to Lassie saying it. When he pulled Shawn's hand down to his ass so Shawn would work himself open while Lassie watched, when Lassie told him to do it, Shawn shuddered, and whispered, with water dropping from his lips,

“Yes, Dear” and ached so deeply that the push of his fingers made him moan.

~~~

Only _slightly_ panicked to realize that he could possibly want to have dinner (and shower sex that had actually left him so weak Lassie had brought him food in bed and _fed_ him, snarling softly the whole time about non-existent messes and work he had to do that he'd somehow never gotten done) with Lassie _for the rest of his life_ (and that was like, forever!), he stewed for two days, avoided anything but the most vanilla sex with Lassie, and then, when Gus hung up on him and Henry slammed the door in his face for his “locker room talk” he'd called his mother.

His _mother_.

She was busy, probably. Off somewhere, counseling some other messed up cop or city employee, but just as he was working himself up to a fit of strong, if new, indignation, she picked up.

“Shawn?” Caller ID would have told her who it was, he had no idea why she was so surprised. He totes called her all the time. “Is your father okay? Is something wrong?”

“Mom, I didn't call to talk about Henry.” _Ick_. Although... “Not exactly. Sheesh, you'd think my life had been lived in counterpoint to Henry's or something,” he joked, his voice a little too high, and his mother went suspiciously quiet. (Shawn suddenly had a flashback to Bill and Ted. He didn't have a stepmom, but he wouldn't have asked her to prom. He'd asked _Gus_ to prom. KQED: thus it was proved).

“This is not some sort of Freudian thing,” he insisted quickly. No wonder Lassie hated visiting the shrink. Shawn did not live his life based on what he'd seen growing up with Madeleine and Henry. He didn't run from them and any sort of commitment knowing that it was doomed to end in heartbreak and bitterness and years of one parent being gone and the other being an unreasonable tight-ass, all the while longing for something real and normal, without exactly knowing what that even meant outside of what he'd seen on TV in and in countless movies.

Please. That would have been silly.

And if he had (which of course he hadn't) he was settled now. Or close to it. With a job and a lease and grouchy cuddle bear who snored into his shoulder at night. Which was totally the reason he was calling.

“I called because...” He stared at the kitchen counter, the little plastic timer he'd found at Williams-Sonoma and bought with Lassie's Visa. “...I was just wondering what it was like...being married...to a...cop...”

“Is this about you and that angry man?” His mother responded instantly (possibly making Shawn's mouth fall open, just for a moment). “That detective...what was his name?”

Shawn coughed. He was suddenly parched.

“Lassie. Lassiter.” He needed a drink, got a glass and filled it with water. She would remember the name, she just wanted him to confirm it. She was as bad as Henry sometimes. “Lassiebear.”

“I'm not blind, you know.” She snorted. “Far from it. You two, the way you did your little dance everyday... Well, a sex drive is a normal and healthy thing...”

“Mom!” Shawn forgot about the water, went back to watching the timer tick down and reciting the _Gummi Bears_ theme.

“Okay fine, no sex talk.” She did that pausing thing again, like she knew better, and while Shawn was debating bluffing his way out of this call, though he'd never been able to convincingly bluff with his mother, she went on. “He talking marriage?”

“No.” Shawn bit his lip, poked at the timer. “Don't be a bronzer-loving mongoose. We're men.”

“Are you happy? Are you hesitating?” It was her shrink voice. He didn't even care.

“ _No_. Well, yes, then no. I just.” He was _far_ from hesitating. That's what was scary. “Wanted to know. What it meant...”

“To be a cop's wife?” Thank St. Lorenzo Lamas that his mother finished that for him. Shawn coughed again, which his mom took as a yes. “Well it's _hard_ , Shawn. It's like being in any relationship, not that you would know that. But trust me, they aren't all teasing and sex...”

He opened his mouth to argue; there was food too, but it was no use. If ESP _had_ existed, his mom would have had it.

“...It's work. It's like another job. You have to compromise, and to stay when things get bad. You have to be willing to make sacrifices—to not have them around for regular hours, to know there's things in their lives you can't be a part of...and to risk them not coming home...”

“No, I... I know that part.” (He resisted the urge to say _duh_. Except...Lassie might not come home? No way, not as long as Shawn was working with him. Psh. Stupid. And things weren't going to get bad ever, not if he could help it and as long as Lassie's credit cards worked at the grocery store and every take out place in Santa Barbara.)

“I meant like...did it... _challenge_...you? You know...?” He gestured at the air; it was kind of a pelvic thrust, tapping that booty, jerking it combo that made him flush so hot that he got underarm sweat.

Yes, he had just asked his mother that. (This call had not been his best idea ever, worse even then when he'd had that Sylvester Stallone movie marathon). He was so warm. He _chugged_ the water, then had to explain, make this less of a nightmare. “Like...the _idea_ of...being that? Wanting to hear it, or...”

“Of being labeled?” His mother seemed shocked, that couldn't be a good sign. Sure, she'd tell him kinks were healthy, but then she'd probably write a paper on him. She hmmed, then cleared her throat. He danced in place. The Roger Rabbit. He hadn't lost his touch. “It's not easy, Shawn, being a wife, especially for someone in a high-risk, high-stress line of work, like police work. Either they take the job home or they won't share at all. Of the two, I find the second worse. In my experience—professionally—with no one to confide in, it can lead to drinking or worse...or cheating.”

“No way. I make him tell me everything.” He interrupted, then winced because that was TMI. “Anyway, I already know everything.”

“The facts, Shawn. What about his feelings? Do you talk about those? His or yours?”

“You and Henry talked about your feelings?” His voice cracked. He went for more water, mostly just to move. He was getting antsy. The kitchen was too small. He ought to go out, pick up some water balloons and a Slip'N'Slide, in case the weather heated up.

“Does Henry _seem_ like the type to talk about his feelings?” Madeleine wondered dryly. Shawn shrugged. They were getting close to the divorce talk, and Shawn didn't like that talk. His father's version was all sad-eyes and grumbling. His mother's approach was more clinical. Neither made him feel good. “Does Lassiter talk about it? What he wants? His feelings about work? For you?”

Lassiter's feelings.... He... Shawn knew about the anxiety (snowglobes, running out of ammo, showing up to work and realizing he was going commando...). About the depression when Victoria had left for good. The sense of failure when a case didn't go right. The anger and need when Shawn teased him at work. The _lust_ and need when Shawn teased him here and Lassie gave it to him good. He knew Lassie liked coming home to dinner and a drink and that he liked sex. That he hadn't objected when Shawn had started staying here for longer and longer periods of time.

He also knew he had a weird aversion to Duran Duran.

But he had no idea what Lassie thought of this. Or marriage. Or boyfriendhood. Only that so far, Lassie had very carefully not said anything at all.

“ _I_ wasn't willing to keep pushing,” his mom kept on talking, quietly, like she knew Shawn was busy thinking. “But I didn't work with your father the way you do with Detective Lassiter. Maybe...maybe that can make a difference.” She hmmed again. “And as long as you realize that you can't be a part of everything he does. The way that you wouldn't want him in every aspect of your life of course, but this will be different.”

Shawn made a scoffing sound and his mother was briefly, dangerously quiet. Then she raised her voice to make sure he heard her.

“Not everybody speaks through words. Perhaps that's why, sometimes, labels are so satisfying, why even people who normally defy them might crave them. Like firm boundaries, it might help them understand what things mean. It's comforting to know where you stand. It allows you to move forward,” she did a thoughtful psychiatrist pause, “if that's what you called to ask me, Shawn.”

The timer clicked over and began to beep. Shawn jumped (and ignored how the phrase “firm boundaries” made him vaguely restless.)

“What's that?” His mother was in his ear and Shawn was leaping toward the oven, grabbing the potholder thingee. (Also from William-Sonoma, to match trivet-y things and the dishtowels and that...other thing...he'd bought. The tropical theme really livened up the place.)

“The timer, my cookies are done.” He actually blinked when he pulled out the tray and the cookies looked _perfect_. “I was craving some classic chocolate chip and I wanted it to smell like it cookies when Carlton comes home. You know his mom never made him cookies?” he added absently as he inhaled delicious cookie smell.

His mother had the coughing fit this time. “And you did?” Her voice was _unbelievably_ dry.

“The dough came in cookie shapes already,” Shawn informed her, so she wouldn't think he was totally crazy. “On a plastic tray.” The package had said, “Safe for Kids to make” right on it. He wasn't going to burn the house down. And Lassie was going to love them, if Shawn left him any. (He might leave him precisely six. And some milk. And when Lassie was happy and grateful and sated on warm chocolate chip cookies and milk...)

A noise outside brought him back to reality. His mom. Right.

“I gotta go, he's here.” He hung up without even a pause, flung a few cookies on a plate, licked at his burned fingers, and then filled a glass with cold milk. He had them on the table right as Lassie walked through the door.

Lassie, bless his uptight, Irish-Catholic heart, stopped at the edge of the kitchen and took a long breath. He had to know the smell. Fresh-baked cookies were like heaven, meant home. Practically shouted pull up a chair and stay forever. If one spoke the language of cookies.

If one didn't, then Shawn supposed they just smelled good.

Lassie's eyes went from Shawn, to the plate of cookies, to the oven, and then came back to Shawn. They were practically _glowing_.

“I'm pretty sure you've lost your mind,” Lassie muttered, which was no kind of greeting, but when Shawn fidgeted (aka moved _smoothly_ ) from foot to foot, Lassie came forward. Shawn's memory clicked, took a good picture of the _wonder_ on Lassie's face, and then he found himself with his back to the table and Lassie's arms around him.

“Yeah, Lassie,” he chanted as he was picked up and placed on his back on the table, because yeah, his man did it good, and he was strong so the table shook. Shawn hooked his legs around Lassie's hips and arched his back (super sex kitten) and milk spilled everywhere in an image so symbolic that even Shawn got it.

Lassie's ears went red, but he didn't stop, like he knew exactly what Shawn wanted now. Shawn told him anyway. “Yeah, Lassie, fuck me right here next to the milk and cookies.”

Lassie just nodded eagerly, stripping off his tie and in a display of un-Lassie-like messiness, threw it to the side. His hands hit the table on either side of Shawn, splashed in the milk, and he didn't even seem to _mind_. Shawn could feel milk wet along his back, and wriggled, not sure if it was gross or just sexy, but when Lassie saw him shift and arch up, he tugged and pulled Shawn's shirt off him.

It went on the floor too, dripping cold milk over his chest before it was tossed aside, making his nipples go hard, and Lassie's ears were so hot against his hands (hot like his mouth, like Mexico, Shawn and Gaga were not wrong) that Shawn pushed up, hot and cold and only half-naked, and except for his tie, Lassie was still fully dressed, which should have been unfair, but all Shawn could think maybe they had twin beds back in the day because they'd always had table fucking.

Fuck. One of Lassie's hands went to his jeans, got them open, and then slid inside slow. Shawn was so warm he was melting, a gooey, sticky cookie and he wanted that, wanted Lassie to eat him up, to lick milk from his skin and swallow him whole. Which was a little crazy, but when he whined, whimpered, possibly said it out loud because Lassie's hand was slow slow slow and torturing him, Lassie just nodded and stepped back and flipped him over.

Just like that Shawn was open-mouthed and thrusting into the unforgiving, dark wood of the table. There was milk on his lips, on his tongue. His jeans were gone, his underwear a distant memory, and Lassiter was kissing down the small of his back, his mouth heading in one obvious direction.

Shawn could hear himself now, not that he could manage any shame.

“Yeah, Lassie, I'm your cookie. Don't stop. Don't stop, don't leave, just please. Please.”

Lassie should have mocked him, or asked, or deliciously punished him for being so demanding. But his hands tightened on Shawn's hips, pulled them up, and then his mouth was right there at Shawn's ass and his voice was low.

“Yes, Dear,” Lassie agreed, and barely seemed to notice what he'd said, or how Shawn went so, so hard to hear it. How it was so perfect that Shawn closed his eyes. How he couldn't stop speaking and saying embarrassing things. How Lassie didn't seem to mind.

How he possibly even liked it.

 

~~~

A week later, Shawn was sitting in the Psych office with Gus going over a case. By which he clearly meant playing Tetris while Gus Googled stuff, listening to the mostly static of the police scanner when the sudden panic burst through loud and clear and made them both freeze.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down! Location 515 West Mesa. Send backup, and a bus!”

It sounded like Buzz.

Shawn almost dropped his phone, looked at Gus. Gus looked at him. And then Lassie's voice crackled over the radio, pissed off, but with that note in it that Shawn knew for a fact meant pain. He was making the same call. Almost.

“Shots fired. Two officers hit. Three total on scene. We need a bus, and backup and--O'Hara, look--”

The call ended.

Shawn didn't even know he was standing until Gus grabbed his arm. Firm and in charge like he was whenever Shawn really needed him to be, and Shawn could barely think of why he might need it now but Gus was holding him and wouldn't let go, not even when they were out the door.

“I'll drive.”

~~~

The shooting was clear across town. It took forever to get there. Once at the scene Shawn leapt out of Little Blue Car and bolted past the rows of cars with flashing lights, the ambulances, and then around barricades like they weren't even there. Ahead was a six story brick building, with seven windows shot out, two that looked like they'd been broken for years, and about thirty cops with guns trained on it. There was a SWAT van too, and people shouting. Possibly a negotiator with a bullhorn. These meant not good things.

Someone should have called him. Someone should have called him.

But no one even _saw_ him until he dashed past the Chief. She shouted after him, but he ignored her, got closer to the building, and saw next to a bunch of SWAT guys, behind a squad car riddled with bullet holes, were Buzz, Jules, and Lassie.

People always said “riddled with bullet holes” Shawn thought absently, things got riddled with bullet holes and sometimes people. He let his gaze sweep over the scene, clicking, memorizing, then stopped abruptly, catching his breath, and feeling a tug on his arm like some SWAT a-hole was trying to pull him away. He shoved them off, then took a slow step forward.

Buzz had a bloody, temporary bandage over his forehead, blood slowly seeping over his ear. Jules looked fine, if pissed. Lassie 's suit jacket was gone. He was in a vest like everyone else, but he had a hole in his shirt and blood along his arm. His gun was out, and his frown looked like Indy's after he found the kidnapped kids in _Temple of Doom_. It only got worse when he spotted Shawn.

“Shawn...” He stalked forward, and then flinched at the _pop pop pop_ of gunfire. His hand tightened on his gun, Shawn couldn't help but notice, and then he was shaking. Lassie was shaking. He hadn't been shaking a second ago.

His wound. Maybe it was serious. It didn't look serious, but maybe Lassie was...maybe Lassie was...

“Lass, I can...!” Shawn started to offer but ducked at another round of shots. He thought they were aimed somewhere else now, at the SWAT guys charging the entrance, but he didn't feel like looking.

Jules turned to him, wide-eyed and shocked. “Shawn, get back!” Then spun around to train her gun on a fourth-floor window.

Lassie's gaze met his, his chest heaving, and then he turned away to snarl at Buzz. “Get him out of here!”

“What? No way!” Shawn wasn't even sure he was shouting, though he had to be, because sweet yet freakily giant alien Buzz kept apologizing as he grabbed him and dragged him away, and then he could hear more loud _pops_ and then someone who _sounded_ like him yelling, “Lassie! Lassie!” until suddenly Gus was there again and there were two uniforms insisting that if Shawn was going to stay, he had to sit in the back of their car, Detective Lassiter's orders. Neither one of them had a sense of humor or seemed willing to be bribed.

They were just a silent, thin blue line, making sure Shawn stayed on his side of it.

The car door was open, unlocked. Shawn supposed that meant he was free to go. But he didn't move, just stared at the building until everything was quiet.

~~~

 

SWAT had taken the guy down. Someone with a warrant, who had somehow known Lassie and Jules were coming for him. Buzz had just been in the neighborhood, answering a noise complaint of all things, and heard the shots.

Shawn had left the squad car a while ago, though he wasn't crossing the barricade anymore. He was just standing, and watching. Standing back with the rest of the civilians, which suddenly he was now.

Just like anybody else. Like anything between them didn't matter anymore.

He could see Lassie from there, as he gave an initial statement, checked on a still-wired Jules, on Buzz, and then finally, finally was forced over to an ambulance by the Chief. He had a flesh wound. Shawn could tell from how the EMT didn't really freak out. She didn't even do much more than slap a bandage over it and give Lassie a pill and a bottle of water.

His dad had shown up, either because of his own scanner or because of Gus. He'd patted Shawn on the back then stood there for a while before finally declaring, “Don't punish him too much for this, kid. Believe it or not it was the right thing to do.”

Which...psh... No it wasn't. And anyway what did Henry know? Other than that Shawn and Lassie were...had been...secret lovers (that's what we are trying so haaaard to hide the way we feeeeel...Shawn's mind finished the song for him, though he didn't smile.)

What did Henry or his mom know about anything? Neither of them had stuck it out, so clearly, Shawn shouldn't be listening to them. So when Henry kept talking, he started to move on to other classic slow jams.

“Passing the barricade during a shoot out, you're damn lucky you weren't hit. If anything, you ought to thank him for saving you.” Henry, being Henry, was still talking. He was rubbing at his neck, turning red, as though this whole talk was so personal he might explode like the guy in _Scanners_.

Gus must have filled Henry in. Shawn tried not listen, mentally sang louder.

“I haven't said anything about this because I knew you might not want to hear it from me...Hell.” He stopped when Shawn snorted despite himself. “But this is the least of things the you're going to have to live with, kid, if you want the rest.”

After a while, when Shawn had only responded with the last part of “Unbreak My Heart”, Henry finally patted him again and walked away.

Right thing to do, Shawn immediately thought, once Toni Braxton was silent. No, the right thing to do was to let Shawn help. Shawn wasn't a civilian, he was an _official consultant_. And smarter than Lassie, and his being around was the best way to ensure that Lassie wouldn't...

...would come home.

(It was a sign of how upset he was that he only got the Lassie the dog reference a few minutes later.)

“You should go talk to him,” Gus remarked. It had been hours, he was back to looking stuff up, on his phone now. Shawn snorted, watched Lassie watch the IA guys show up, how Lassie's eyes narrowed and how the arrival of Internal Affairs made him and Jules and Buzz all unconsciously group together. Cut and dry ambush, it shouldn't be their fault, but these things were protocol, Shawn knew.

They'd take his gun too. Lassie was going to be stressed. And angry, once the investigation into just how the guy had known they were coming got going. Shawn wanted to get his arms around him, but he was “just a civilian” and so he was staying behind the barricade.

He'd bet Lassie's wife would have been allowed to run over to him. Possibly even his boyfriend, if Shawn had been that. As a mere consultant, he probably could have talked his way across the barricade now that the scene was clear of gun-crazy nutjobs, could have gone over, smiled at everyone, hugged Jules, given Buzz an “all is forgiven” slap on the back.

He didn't, because Lassie's gaze kept sliding Shawn's way but not the man himself. As he had just faced a hail of gunfire and was no funky chicken, Shawn could only assume Lassie didn't _want_ to come over to him.

The station already knew they were...together, not that Lassie was a fan of PDAs, but what did he think Shawn was going to do? (Grab him and squeeze until his face was purple from the lack of oxygen. Push him into a squad car so hard he'd bruise and then do his best to remember how to punch _not_ like a girl so he could hit Lassie in his flesh wound and make him _hurt_. Kiss him. Kiss him hard.)

“...Right now it's a matter of making sure your stories match up with the ballistics and the eye-witness reports...” some suited member of the Rat Briga—of Internal Affairs—was saying. “And then you can continue your investigation into any possible ambush...”

“When I find the son of a bitch...” Lassie started, until the Chief told him to hush, and Shawn lifted his chin.

“Hi! Shawn Spencer, official police department psychic, here! If anyone had consulted with me, since that is my job, as an 'official consultant',” he called out, stressing the words, making Gus look up from his phone and everyone else turn to look at him. Shawn kept his eyes on the Chief. She did not seem amused. “...I possibly could have seen this coming. Or I could have told you guys to check out Sgt. Fuller over there.”

He didn't move, but everyone else turned to look at the suddenly-frozen sergeant. The man had guilt all over his face and had for the hours that he and Shawn had watched the scene unfold.

Shawn debated gesturing at his head, but then gave up when only Lassie turned back to stare at him. Two uniforms appeared behind Fuller, not touching him (yet). Shawn's psychic prowess was still taken seriously at least.

“But I am just a consultant,” he pointed out again, then shrugged. “With an unbelievable solve rate. But you guys can have that one for free. On me.” He turned toward Gus. “Come on, Gus, let's leave the cops to it.”

“Shawn!” Lassie moved forward, way too late, and Gus hesitated, but when Shawn started back toward the Echo, Gus came with him.

“Now, Lassie, this is a place for the police,” Shawn sang out without turning, itching and picking up speed because he _had_ to move. Had to get away like _now_. “Not us consultants or civilians or...” Whatever he was.

“Shawn...” Lassie tried again, “Spencer!” with that pained note in his voice like he was hurt all over again, hurt like Shawn was, and Shawn had to walk faster.

He was possibly grateful he wasn't anything official to Lass. If he had been, he would have had to deal with this. As it was he could (calmly, and with a totally believable smile) suggest to Gus they get tacos for dinner.

~~~

His stomach rumbled when he walked in the door, because despite staring at his crispity crunchity tacos for hours while sitting around the office with Gus, he hadn't been able to manage a bite.

And it was just like Gus, to know that by “get some tacos for dinner” Shawn had (obviously) meant “in Mexico” and to act ignorant and drive him to the office to call an order in instead. They had watched TV, though Gus had been texting constantly. Confirming rumors (Jules), giving status reports (Henry), and (possibly) still looking stuff up on his phone for their case, as though they still had a case and Shawn wasn't going anywhere.

Shawn had tried to argue that the food was always better by the sea in that little fishing town in Baja, but since Gus had gotten Montezuma's Revenge there, he hadn't agreed. He had also gone on about the lease in both their names and the meaning of commitment and had held on to the keys to Shawn's bike until it was after midnight and not even Shawn would have tried to leave town at that hour.

Not that Shawn had had any such plan. He was tired. Too tired to consider a long drive. So tired that he'd driven straight past his apartment and to Lassie's house without thinking. So tired he hadn't even realized the lights were all on inside the house until he'd gotten inside.

The TV was on too, muted. Lassie was sitting on his big Barcalounger, perched uncomfortably on the edge, with his head in his hands and mos def not watching the Nick at Nite on the TV screen.

There was an empty glass on the floor by him. It had probably had something in it that Lassie wasn't supposed to take with painkillers. Lassie was in a thin tee almost as white as his skin, and there was a taped square on his arm, covering most of the bicep. This bandage looked very professional; he'd been to the hospital.

“You went to the hospital and you didn't call me?” (It, maybe, slipped out before Shawn remembered his lack of status here. His lack of _wanting_ any status here.)

Lassie jerked up, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and too bright, but they focused on Shawn and then he was on his feet. His expression was like he'd come home to cookies, or a chicken dinner, and Shawn almost turned around (just in case there was a buffet of treats behind him that he'd missed somehow. Maybe a new pair of fuzzy slippers.)

“You didn't leave,” Lassie said slowly, and any other time, Shawn would have rolled his eyes. Obviously, here he was. But Lassie was freaky white, even for Lassie, except for the pill-and-booze color in his cheeks, and he'd been _shot at_ today. Grazed with a bullet if not actually shot, and been questioned and possibly stitched up.

Shawn's hands twitched. He swallowed, then slid forward.

“All my stuff is here,” he joked, slipping into the kitchen to get some water. He filled a glass for Lassie too, then remembered himself and left it on the counter. “And I'm tired.” Then he scowled and carried the water to Lassie anyway, because Lassie was an idiot. “Are you supposed to be drinking while riding a Vicodin high, Lass?”

Lassie just stared at him, stoned and drunk, and took the water. He gulped it down and Shawn stuck the glass on the coffee table. Without a coaster. Lassie did not look concerned, he wasn't even frowning. “Did you eat anything? You should be asleep.”

Lassie's head went up and down, then side to side, without his eyes leaving Shawn. “Had to wait,” he remarked. “To see. I got you something. Dinner.” He was having a problem getting his words out, and swayed when he waved. “Sandwich. Hospital.”

“A hospital cafeteria sandwich? You really shouldn't have.” Shawn's stomach turned a little bit more.

“I wasn't sure. Vicky wouldn't...but you...today.” Lassie stumbled, and because he wasn't a jerk, Shawn had to catch him, and did his best not to flashback to that moment of seeing Lassie bleeding, shaking, but he could smell gunpowder all over him, and hospital antiseptic. He waited, his breath suddenly catching, but Lassie just grunted. “You could have been killed, you idiot. You didn't belong there.”

It was the clearest thing Lassie had said so far and it was not even close to an apology. Not that Shawn was waiting for one. He stiffened. He was pretty sure he'd never signed up for watching Lassie get shot at. And he sure as hell hadn't signed up for getting called an idiot for worrying about him.

Which maybe, was the name for the sickening feeling that had been churning in his gut all day and wouldn't go away, not even with Lassie warm against him. He wanted it to go away. No way did people live like this, with this fear just there, all the time. No way was anything worth it.

He kind of wanted to call his mother (and for some reason, Victoria, though he couldn't begin to imagine that conversation, but he could see her, like in one of those pictures, standing by herself, dressed in black, and the look in her eyes was about the same, as though Lassie had already left her and she'd known that). He also wanted to turn around and leave again, except Lassie could barely stand and he had to get him to bed.

“Come on, Lass,” he sighed, trying to remember the last time he had ever put someone else to bed when they were ready to pass out. But he was exhausted, so he couldn't even remember the last time Lassie had ever followed him like this without at least one suspicious comment.

Lassie breathed into his hair as they walked, disturbing the perfection, but Shawn didn't say anything, just got him on the bed, got his pants off, and then laid him down. His hands lingered, but not in a sexytimes way. The rest of Lassie felt fine. No trace of shaking anymore.

“Shawn.” A sober Lassie wouldn't have said his name like that. The same way a calm Lassie would never have called him _Shawn_ in public in that same starving voice.

“I could have...” Shawn cut himself off. He wasn't having this argument. But he could have...

“Or you could have been shot too.” Lassie went smart at the worst times. Shawn wanted to know why that mattered (not that he wanted to die, not at all, thanks so much, but why it mattered when Lassie had been the one bleeding and under fire and not hauled off like a kid and told to stay away).

Lassiter's eyes were closed, as though the bed was doing its job, or the pills, or the scotch, and Lassie's day was finally ending. Shawn crossed his arms as he hovered over him, his feet itching to pace the hallway, the rest of him firmly anchored right where he was.

“If I had thugs in uniform at my beck and call, I would have dragged you off too.” He pointed out to sleeping Lassie, then gave up and gave in to what he wanted and took off down the hall. He walked up and down for another hour, had a gross drink of scotch not warmed from Lassie's mouth, and then because he was so tired (and only because he was so tired) brushed his teeth cinnamon-clean and got into bed.

When he woke near dawn, it was to the sound of Lassie snoring against his shoulder.

“Lass you're snoring again,” he said without thinking, reaching back to poke at him, because Lassie had been drinking so of course he was snoring. Lassiter shifted, turning his head to Shawn's neck and breathing out quietly, easily.

“Sorry, honey,” he sighed and then planted what felt like an apologetic kiss under his ear when Shawn tensed. Lassie had to be talking to Victoria in his sleep, in his Vicodin-and-scotch haze. He was confusing the two of them, maybe thinking about the danger today and remembering her reaction, and oh, oh, suddenly Shawn wanted to know about that.

He _had_ to ask.

“Weren't you afraid?” Shawn had been afraid, not that he was going to say it, not out loud, of course not. But he'd been terrified. Still was. He was shaky and uncertain and Lassie couldn't ever ever ever understand. He'd say Shawn was being a baby, or that a real cop's wife would just learn to suck it up, or that he'd never expected Shawn to react like that because he'd never once considered Shawn as his...life partner. But hell no, no way had even Victoria sat back and acted happy while waiting for Lassie to get riddled with bullet holes.

Shawn wasn't going to take that, and he certainly wasn't going to take it quietly. If Lassie thought that then he really was as dumb as Shawn acted like he was at the station. If Lassie thought that, then it was like everything Shawn felt was nothing, and all the food and sex in the world weren't enough to make him forget that. (Not that he ever forgot anything).

It's why Shawn had to leave. This was so much bigger than...anything except maybe Gus being a hostage, and he wasn't going to sit back and wait for Lassie's decision. Shawn couldn't...he had that feeling, like he couldn't take it, whatever it was. He couldn't take it. Yes, and Lassie could die. No, and Lassie could still die, but at least Shawn wouldn't have to watch it. (That was, he realized, the decision his mother and Victoria had made. For themselves. Though there had probably been other things in there too, the fact was the police work came first, and so they'd chosen something else for themselves.) Shawn sucked in a breath. (He could do that too. He wasn't Lassie's anything. He could leave, right now.)

Lassie exhaled, then flopped one arm over him, pinning Shawn down with weight alone.

“Yes,” he grumbled wearily, slow, like it was obvious, or he was just still really, really stoned. “'Course I was scared. You could've been killed, Shawn.” Shawn froze to hear that Lassie knew exactly who he was talking to. Lassie only huffed. It wasn't with anger, Lassie was too sleepy and weak, hot at his back. “'Couldn't live with that...”

“Next time Buzz isn't going to stop me.” Shawn honestly had no idea what he was saying. But it was not that he wanted to die, not at all. Lassie snorted, squeezed him, both gestures way too loose for Lassie.

“Then you left. Didn't even look back,” Lassie complained. Shawn's chest got tight. “Don't do that again,” Lassie added, then dropped his voice to beg, “Don't make me watch that again, Shawn” and Shawn opened his mouth, tried to think of something clever and sassy to say, like how Lassie should have called him over afterward, or it was his own fault for not inviting Shawn in on the case, but a moment later and Lassie was snoring again and Shawn was staring at the sunlight starting to hit the wall.

He thought, absently, that this revelation wouldn't have happened in twin beds.

(Of course, neither would the whole two dudes with boners for each other thing).

~~~

 

Whatever had knocked out Lassie had knocked him out good. He was still asleep around noon and Shawn had been awake for _hours_.

Normally, when this occurred, on one of Lassie's rare days off, Shawn couldn't _wait_ to wake him up, but though Shawn had been up since freaking dawn, he hadn't even ventured into the bedroom except when he needed to use the bathroom. And then only on his tip toes, which was easier to do barefoot than in slippers, so that's what he'd done.

He also thought it added to the ambiance. Or whatever the word was for the look he was going for here.

Sheesh he was tired though. Too little sleep and way too much thinking, and all this introspection was _exhausting_. He was just going to leave it up to his mom from now on. And possibly Gus. But not Henry, he'd always take Lassie's side (and also, damn it, he had been right yesterday and Shawn hated that).

Luckily, he was three cups of coffee and one Red Bull into his day by the time he heard Lassie stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. He was in there for a while, showering, shaving, maybe changing his bandage (Ick. At least he didn't expect Shawn to do that. Babysteps. And that was _blood_.) and hopefully not getting his stitches wet or putting on his clothes like he was going to sneak into work. (Jules had called, pleased to hear Shawn answer Lassie's phone, and repeated the Chief's order that Lassiter stay home today. Then Shawn had told her she looked hot with a smoking gun in her hand and she'd laughed and hung up).

Shawn had been planning a breakfast, but the eggs had stuck to the bottom of Lassie's (clearly subpar) pans (he needed copper ones, like Gus. Shawn already had his credit card in his possession), and the toast got jammed in the toaster (he still had no idea how that even happened, but a new toaster was also on his list) and the frozen sausage links still looked pink for some reason.

He set out a bowl of cereal on the counter instead, leaving the milk in the fridge for now (they'd wasted enough for a while anyway). He put a cup of coffee out too. It was steaming nicely, though he refused to add that unholy amount of sugar and cream that Lassie put into it. Lass could do that himself. Then he waited, leaning against the other counter and watching Lassie emerge.

Lassie clearly wasn't feeling his best this morning. His hair was a scruffy mess and he had on a collared dress shirt but hadn't bothered to button it over his t-shirt. Also he had on dress pants, but his feet were covered by Officer Cuddle Bear.

He blinked when he saw Shawn, then wiped at his eyes. Then he blinked and stared some more.

Shawn reached down (a little self-consciously) to pat his the frills along the edge of the apron. They were just above his knees, and no, he didn't think the pineapple and coconut design clashed with his jeans or his polo shirt. The ruffles continued up the sides over his chest though, where, if he'd _had_ boobs, two incredibly well-placed coconuts would have made him look like a porn star.

(He wasn't entirely against the idea.)

Anyway, he'd come to term with most of his kinks early in life, and his new...whatever it was...for Lassiepants was just something else that got him harder than Gus for a early issue of the Green Lantern.

In fact it wasn't so much a kink as just _Lassie_ , and it was worse than when he'd been eighteen and discovered his sluttier, dominate me please tendencies. Also better. Much, much better. Scarier too, because it was a whole new kind of pain, but he was thinking that he was willing to risk it, if Lassie was down. (To, you know, set some firm boundaries for Shawn to explore. He wanted Lassie's boundaries. He wanted to have Lassie's boundaries' babies. Just...not out there. Only here. And Lassie needed to know that).

Shawn waved a hand over the food and coffee, like a _Price Is Right_ model and Lassie cleared his throat. He took the coffee though, took a long, long drink (black!) then put it down.

“Hot,” he remarked and Shawn bit back the “...like Mexico...” just in time. Even he knew he was getting annoying with that one. Damn Gaga. “What is this?”

Shawn swallowed, so parched he took Lassie's coffee and sipped it. It seemed warmer than usual. He sighed and put it back.

“Breakfast. Don't be an unkempt Bieber.”

“You know I meant... _this_.” He had no idea why Lassie would sigh like that. Except for how Shawn was barefoot and wearing an apron in the man's kitchen, slaving over a bowl of cereal for him. (Again, it wasn't like he was going to clean. Or do laundry. Lassie _ruled_ that iron. Wrinkles were permitted only over his cold, dead body. Not that Shawn was considering that image right now.)

“It's an apron. Duh.” This had seemed easier when he'd been cruising on Red Bull and watching the sun come up (by which he meant while playing Xbox). Lassie growled.

“I can see that, Shawn.” Shawn opened his mouth to protest.

“Oh so no more “honey”s this morning. I see how it is. At work I'm just a “civilian” and here I'm just that guy in the apron in your kitchen.”

“Barefoot,” Lassie added, like Shawn had forgotten, and Shawn went still. Lassie's cheeks got pink. Then his ears. “And you are a civilian,” he muttered, just had to remind Shawn. Shawn ought to take away his honorary Psych membership badge that he'd never actually given him. But he had other things to talk about at the moment. Like the proposal that was this apron.

“So the uh...look...works for you, huh?” Maybe Lassie had a wifey boner too after all. But Lassiter frowned and rubbed at his arm. He didn't seem to notice that last part. Shawn did though, and frowned back at him.

“I don't expect you to play house for me, Shawn.” Lassie took a step at Shawn's small outraged gasp, and scrubbed at his cheeks as though still embarrassed.

“I'm not playing.” It was weird. But true. He had been, and yes, he was totally the Samantha to Lassie's Darrin (though Lassie wasn't as gay as either Darrin and Lassie _wanted_ Shawn to use his powers). He could have been Jeanie too, he supposed, because she was amazingly hot and he wouldn't have minded calling Lassie “Master” once in a while. But not all the time. Whenever he got shot at, Shawn had other things to call him. (Like asshole. And sweet, sweet Lassiepants.)

“You don't have to do this,” Lassie overrode him. “For one thing, we can't afford take out every day. And for another, I've never...well I never expected these things...from anyone.”

“I've never had them either. And nice ego, by the way, Lass, but I wasn't doing this all for you. I mean...” Hmm, Shawn suddenly had a new term for himself, and it wasn't as nice as cop's wife, which FYI, meant someone a hell of a lot stronger than most people realized. This term was more like Lassie's bitch. Because Lassie got a line between his eyes and Shawn came forward to meet him like he'd been asked to. (The way, possibly, he should have yesterday. Not that he was apologizing, or admitting that out loud. Ever.)

“You didn't...you don't like it?” He'd really meant that to come out teasing. Someday he was going to figure out why that only worked at the station and never at home. Coffee breath trickled down over his ear and neck. He shivered.

“You mean food when I get home? A drink? Your...current outfit?” Lassie snorted. “Is that what you think a...?” Lassie's words got caught in his throat. Shawn turned away quickly, stepping over to pretend he knew how to wash dishes. (He did, because of Henry, but Lassie didn't need to know that.)

“Don't be ridiculous. Of course...a relationship...is more than that, Lassie.”

For some reason, getting turned around and held against the counter was not what he expected. Though (naturally) he went with it.

“Those things are nice.” Lassie agreed, his gaze very blue. When Shawn blinked, not getting it, Lassie snarled. It must have been a residual snore. “But mostly I just...like you. Being here. Waiting for me.” He was getting redder by the second. Shawn tried to seem surprised by this announcement, though lying in the dark and watching the sun come up gave a man time to think. Or touch himself and think about the way Lassie looked at him. _Him_. Not the food. He must not have acted surprised enough. Lassie's flush went down his neck to his chest. “God you're a pain in the ass.”

“You kicked me out of your crime scene.” Shawn still wasn't sure about that one, but he rubbed it in anyway.

“I kicked you out of a _shooting_. And you didn't come with me to the hospital.” Lassie tossed back. Smartypants.

“Boyfriends don't get to do that.” Shawn lifted his chin.

“Boyfriends?” Lassie's voice got rough with surprise. Lassie's hands landed on his waist before he leaned in. Smart. Shawn leaned back, but mostly just so Lassie would step in and blanket him in Lassieness. Then Interrogation Voice made an appearance and things got rumbly. “Is that what you want to be? Just my boyfriend?”

“Do I lose this argument if I confess that I'm hard right now?” Shawn's volume slid up, and then up up up when Lassie tested that by grinding against him. Oh crap. Shawn closed his eyes. He'd almost forgotten that although he had just signed up for the bonus package, his original deal of great sex (and also food) still applied.

“Kinky,” Lassie was not laughing. He wouldn't dare. He just popped Shawn's fly, smoothed his hands over Shawn's lower belly, and shoved his pants down. Shawn wriggled to assist. But when Lassie's hands went to his back and grabbed the apron strings, Shawn shook his head.

“Leave it on.” He went for full porn star, his back arched over the counter, his lips shiny, his eyes as seductively half-closed as he could manage. (Suck on that, Mrs. Cleaver).

Lassie went right for his mouth, like that was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. Talk about wifey kink. He kissed wet and dirty, palmed Shawn's cock, and rutted against his side, right against the tropical fruit-themed fabric. Shawn grabbed Lassie's shoulders and spread his legs like a ho. Except he wasn't no ho. When Lassie's mouth found his throat, he moaned at the ceiling, said it out loud, “Call me wifey. Say it.”

His heart raced at the word, his dick twitched happily in Lassie's hand, and Lassie drew in a sharp, quick breath.

Then Shawn's ass was on the counter and Lassie was exhaling that word all over the cock currently tenting Shawn's pineapple apron. Lassie's hands were under there too, holding him still when “wife, wife, you're my wife, Shawn” against his cock made Shawn flail and moan, try to shift up or slide down. Lassie held him still, probably straining his stitches. He didn't seem to mind. (He never had, and there was a very good reason for that.)

“This is a new thing with you, isn't it?” Lassie demanded, like everything was finally clicking, and Shawn looked down. There was wonder in Lassie's eyes. Wonder. Oh yeah. Because Lassie had wanted this all along and hadn't dared to ask.

Shawn couldn't speak, so he nodded.

“I can live with that,” Lass told him instantly, hot breath and strong hands, and then pushed the apron up and slid Shawn's cock between his lips.

He'd better, Shawn thought, faintly, before letting Lassie rock his world. Shawn didn't marry just anybody.

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Lassiter's Little Wifey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/430063) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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